SYOTS writing for dummies
by Anla'shok
Summary: Because when on chapter 20 everyone is still rooting just for their own tribute, you've got a problem. Here you are, with your computer, an amazing arena and twenty-four uber-original foolproof tributes. What's next? A parody of what's wrong in so many SYOTS.
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**Before we start, this isn't a call for anyone to stop writing. You want to write, do write! You won't get better by staring at your bedroom wall. But maybe this will help you write better.**

**SYOTS are "submit your own tribute stories," basically the 24 tributes are submitted to the author and the author writes the Hunger Games they're fighting in. There are dozens of guides (published or on profiles) on how to submit a relatable and interesting tribute that isn't overpowered. Unfortunately awesome tributes don't make awesome stories. This isn't about style or grammar, it's about content.**

**I haven't read every single SYOTS out there. This is just supposed to be a humorous compilation of the issues I pick up in so many stories.**

* * *

><p><strong>1) Train rides<strong>

Emeritus swished his silk and silver cloak triumphantly. "I've obtained money to bug the trains," he said, pride flushing his cheeks.

It was his first year as a Gamemaker and he was so going to show them.

His elder colleague eyed him oddly, looking disappointingly unimpressed. "Forget it, nothing happens during the train rides."

Emeritus stared, shocked. "But… but it's the first time the tributes meet! Just after tearful goodbyes! There's bound to be conflict! They're having the worst day of their lives, or the best! None of them will be just sitting around! And what of the escorts? It's the tributes' first contact with the Capitol, don't tell me they take it in stride!"

"It's nothing new to them. They already know that we're just shallow and oblivious. Or cruel." Lucretia added with a giggle. Her hand flew to her glossy lips. "Oh my, did I really say that?" She said, readjusting her huge glasses. They were made of puppy bones with studded rubies.

"And what about the mentors?"

"Who cares about the mentors? They're bland traumatized individuals who give useless advice. Trust me, nothing _ever_ happens during the train rides."

* * *

><p><strong>2) Little<strong>

"Why does the twelve year old have a teddy bear?" Emeritus said. _Were there explosives in it?_

Lucretia sighed. "Because he's twelve, duh. Ever seen a twelve year old_ without_ a teddy bear?"

"Actually –"

"No, you haven't, _everyone_ knows twelve-year-olds are naïve little bloodbaths with teddy bears! They don't even understand what the Hunger Games really are the poor darlings." A frown creased Lucretia's brow. "Although, there are psychopaths sometimes. It makes a great twist."

Bloodbaths? "If I were a Career, I'd target the twelve-year-olds last. It won't impress sponsors and the littles are a lesser threats."

"Stop acting as though Careers know strategy. Honestly, it's not like they've spent years thinking about the Games." Lucretia lowered her voice. "We ask the recruiters to spur the stupid ones to volunteer, otherwise, the other ones would have no chance."

"Isn't that our job? To balance their advantage with an arena that favors the untrained to keep the suspense up?"

"No, Emeritus. Careers are stupid and unoriginal. They pack together, they hunt and they betray each other when things get boring."

"But –"

Lucretia cuffed him. "No buts."

* * *

><p><strong>3) Training<strong>

"I love training," Lucretia gushed. "It's so ordered."

Emeritus was bored. He wanted blood. "Why do the tributes let the others train?"

"Why would anyone interfere with someone else's training?"

"To stop them from gaining skills? Or just because they're furious and feel like breaking things? Because someone out there may kill them? I'm not talking about interfering with Careers. Why isn't a single one crying for that matter?" Emeritus pulled a face. They had promised him there would be tears. "Can't they see their chances are low?"

Lucretia snorted. "Furious? _Crying?_ You're so _weak_. People of regular strength are calm and collected even when they're three days away from a horrid death. It's not like it's a huge deal."

_What? _

Emeritus donned his invisibility cloak, strapped on his telepathic helmet, and tip-toed into the training room. Closest to him the dark-skinned sixteen year old Berry Wilde was explaining snares to her ally.

"You will die," he whispered in her ear.

Berry blinked and shook her head. "Snares are easy," she said as if he'd never spoken. "They're like making nets to carry apples except to trap humans."

Her ally, another sixteen year old, but from District Eight, nodded before cracking a brilliant joke on apples and people.

Berry's thoughts filtered through the telepathic helmet.

_She's so nice and brave to be able to joke here. I'm so relieved to have her as my ally._

Emeritus facepalmed. "You're wasting time being protective instead of allying yourself with someone who can help you, Berry."

Berry seemed unable to hear him. She paused to look at Sylvan from Seven at the weapons station. His axe struck the target with a thud.

_He's really good. I wish I could have trained. I wonder what Seven is like._

Emeritus tuned out the three paragraph monologue about District Eleven's orchard and her starving little brother which she missed so very much.

"That target could be your head." _Come on, give me one negative thought, girl!_

Berry barely shivered. She just bit her lip.

_Maybe we need another ally. To be protected. We would be able to go far._

"Who cares about going far," Emeritus huffed. "There's no _WE_. It's win or die."

Emeritus realized that every time he said the word win, death or kill, Berry's mind went blank. It was peculiar. It's like there was a cosmic force that prevented her to think about it.

Suddenly, a random male tribute rushed across the room.

"Trip him," Emeritus urged. "If he breaks a leg, you won't have to fight him."

Berry frowned._ Where did that thought come from? Oh wait, I must think about how training is important and how happy I am to have an ally. _

Berry wiped sweat off her brow. She had narrowly avoided some meaningful, tense interaction. _Phew._

Berry stood up and saw a lanky boy of eighteen sitting in a corner. District Three. They were usually smart and not too aggressive. Perfect.

"Yes, _smart_," Emeritus whispered ominously, flapping his arms underneath his invisibility cloak. "He may lie to you, use you and leave you for dead because he's actually in another alliance and just pretending to be alone to spy. Or because he doesn't want to give up his chances for another, better alliance."

Berry blinked again. No, the boy looked nice and not too weak. It didn't even cross her mind that her life was on the line, that she had no clue who the boy was. He looked nice and she needed an ally. She had no reason to suspect the worst in him, even if such an oversight could kill her later.

She asked him. He said yes. Why make things complicated?

Emeritus sighed mournfully. When he'd been a kid, he had actually been afraid of death. The new generation was so disappointing.

A ripped bronze-haired youth with a nose-ring elbowed him on the way out.

"Stop being depressing," District Four said. "If everyone is truly miserable or gets legitimately furious at life and turns into a git, the Games stop being fun and light with the occasional melodramatic death."

"Killing teenagers? Fun and light?" Emeritus pulled a face. He'd become a gamemaker to see them suffer. _What was the fun if the tributes didn't even process the danger?_

"It's a SYOTS, Man, you're overthinking. Now, I'm going back there being clichéd and pretending that, after six years of training, I still need to risk pulling a muscle before the Hunger Games. I'll go swing some tridents around or something."

Ripped Guy pulled something out of his pocket. "Want some denial pills, Man? Everyone took them on the train."

Emeritus's eyes widened like saucers. _Finally, it all made sense!_

* * *

><p><strong>4) Interviews<strong>

"Why don't the trained tributes have an actual interview angle? It looks like the guy just invented that on the spot." Emeritus scrunched his nose up. "It's lame too."

"Forget the interviews," Lucretia said dismissively. "The Games are coming up. Interviews are just a formality. The faster we go through them, the quicker we reach the arena."

"But why don't they sabotage someone else's angle or just lie to make themselves more interesting?"

"Lie? Who lies? And sabotage is just mean. They smile at the crowd and boast. Those are the rules."

"What rules? I thought they wanted to be remembered. Or that they hated us. I'm surprised Caesar doesn't get shouted at." Surely not all the tributes were good enough actors to play along with Caesar? "That'd be spunky."

Lucretia looked at him as if he was daft.

"At least their mentors could have prepared..." Emeritus trailed off when he saw Lucretia's expression.

"Forget mentors," she said.

* * *

><p><strong>5) Bloodbath <strong>

"Why are they all running towards the Cornucopia, even the slow girls and the guy established as the cowardly kid?"

"Because they have to, Emeritus. If they don't get supplies, they're dead."

"They're dead tomorrow, or in three days. If those slow runners go in after the Careers, chances are they're dead _today_. How can they be sure there are no supplies, or that they won't be able to find branches or rocks as weapons?"

Lucretia huffed at his incessant stream of questions. "How would I know! It's how it's always done."

"Says who? And even though, wouldn't they be scared to run straight to their potential deaths even if they _might_ pull it off?"

"Haha, who's _that_ much of a wimp?"

"Normal people," Emeritus muttered. He straightened, struck by sudden inspiration. "They could attack or bully a tribute who ran out of the Cornucopia with a pack and take no risks themselves. It's much less risky since the untrained tribute will probably not be enough of a killer to resist enough."

"Oh come on, no one is that cruel."

Emeritus narrowed his eyes. "Lucretia, those kids are _fighting for their lives_, aren't they?"

"Yes," Lucretia absently replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Just checking."

* * *

><p><strong>6) Denial<strong>

"What did you feed them? They're all trusting, rational and friendly."

"Denial pills are totally in, didn't you know? Aww, look how nice to their allies they all are. Isn't it cute?" Lucretia gave an outraged growl. Her retractable cat-claws sprang out in fury. "My goodness, did that bitch actually hide part of the supplies from her ally? I knew it!" She took a deep breath and smiled. "We always need a good antagonist."

The word antagonist had Emeritus's eyebrows fly up. "Why would she starve herself for her allies when only one can survive? And she could think they're lying about what they found too."

"Where did you grow up? Why would allies be wary of each other? They're allies! Only a complete psychopath would even contemplate the murder of their allies. She's such a bitch!"

"They hardly know if the other can be trustworthy."

"Don't be absurd, of course they do."

Emeritus shook his head. "What if that girl who wants to go home and who knows that her allies are weaker than she is decides to save her own life? What if one of them realizes that the others will be dead anyway within a week?"

"Won't happen."

"But she could think -"

"No, she won't. Allies trust each other. They don't use each other. They're _friends_, damn it!"

"But -"

"It will _not_ happen," Lucretia said in final tones.

* * *

><p><strong>7) Backstory and realism<strong>

"What's so special about that girl?"

"Oh, Vale's life is so tragic," Lucretia said in delight. "Her illegitimate –but rebellious- peacekeeper dad was beaten to death by an angry mob. Her train-driver mother loves her but is away half the year. But she's just a normal girl, she was cowed into inaction. I mean, imagine what those brutes would have done to her brothers.

"Okay. But what does she do?"

"She's got trembling hands, so she can't be a hovercraft technician, but she's really smart so she's tutoring her brothers." Lucretia gave an endeared sigh. "Vale is a family girl, so full of ambition."

"But what does she do!" Emeritus exclaimed. He didn't care for all that, not if it had no impact on what Vale _did._

"Do? Are you listening to me!" Lucretia exploded. "She spent her childhood trying to get peacekeepers and district citizen to get along, because she knows they're deep down normal people."

Emeritus gave up and decided to nod until Lucretia shut up. He'd thought observing the tributes in the Capitol would reveal their potential, instead he'd ended up with 24 biographies.

He desperately hoped it would get better during the actual Games.

* * *

><p>Emeritus was eating a caviar and truffle sandwich when Lucretia entered the room, her diamond ring projecting the Games live on a 3D hologram.<p>

"I know you don't like Vale," Lucretia said "but…"

Emeritus almost spat out his caviar. Action? Plot? _Really_? "What's she doing?" He said excitedly.

"Well… She's about to get killed by a mutt because she sat there staring in space about her ambitions for the last three days, but she's made a sling to fight it off, so she's got that going for her."

Emeritus frowned. "How can she use a sling?"

"Trembling hands can stop trembling if you will it hard enough. Honestly, it's like depression or hemorrhaging, you can stop it with a bit of willpower," Lucretia said with a shrug. "Vale had just never tried before. Besides, the crowd likes her so we have to make allowances."

Emeritus's head was beginning to pound again. "What's wrong with a dagger or just a rock?"

"A rock, how frigging sick is that? What kind of beast kills another with a rock? She's a normal girl!"

_Exactly_. "Have you ever tried to hit a target, never mind moving, with a sling hard enough to actually wound? And how did she build it again? She's from District Six, right?"

"Aw come on, how hard can it get? She's seen the other Games." Lucretia laughed and pointed. "Oh look at that idiot."

A Career was drowning.

"How hard can swimming get?" Emeritus snappily replied. "The Careers have seen the other Games."

Lucretia sighed. "My dear man, you've still got a lot to learn."

Vale stunned the Career tracking her with two stones, allowing a mutt to dismember the evil volunteer from Two. She'd have killed him with a single stone, but she wasn't a Mary Sue. Things had to be kept realistic.

* * *

><p><strong>8) Time<strong>

"What, they've all stopped!"

Lucretia hadn't even blinked. "They've each done one action today. There's not more than one action a day."

"What? Why would they just sit around? And anyway after four days, they'll be so weak from lack of supplies they'll be useless. And even if they get supplies, the Careers have more."

"Humans can survive very long without food if they have a bit of water."

Emeritus rolled his eyes. "Yes, if they _do not_ exert themselves physically."

"If they do too much," Lucretia added. "Their actions for the day would not hold in one chapter."

"And that's a problem, because?"

Lucretia patted his bunny-fur wig. "It is, trust me."

* * *

><p><strong>9) Nighttime<strong>

"Aren't they cute. All sleeping so soundly."

"Why does no one do anything at night?"

"Troll mutts that turn to stone in the daylight kill anyone who'd try to take advantage of the dark."

Emeritus cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Makes sense."

* * *

><p><strong>10) Wounds.<strong>

"It's disgusting, all that blood," Emeritus said, the hungry glint in his gold-encrusted eyes belying his tone.

"He took a spear to the arm. Nasty business," Lucretia said gleefully. "The bone broke under the impact. See them running for their lives?"

Emeritus was astounded to see the boy honest-to-God zooming through the trees while holding his shattered arm. "What did you feed them?"

"Nothing! It's just adrenaline."

"Make starving, severely wounded, tributes run two miles and be just winded afterwards? You sure they're not breathing pain-killers?"

"Oh, Emeritus, who lets himself get distracted by a broken arm? Honestly. Why are you limping?"

Emeritus flushed a deep red when he realized another tribute was crawling through barbed wire, barely a moan escaping his clenched teeth as his fingers were sliced away. "I have blisters, it hurts," he said, struggling to hold to his tattered dignity. _What, ivory shoes were fashionable!_

Maybe Snow hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said District people weren't human.

* * *

><p><strong>11) Character development<strong>

"What! But they were just about to get interesting. Why did the camera switch?"

"We have to spend an equal time on all tributes," Lucretia said with a shrug.

"But why! Stop switching over whenever I finally start remembering a name."

"Then keep a cheat-sheet. We must give each a chance to shine!"

Emeritus crossed his arms. "Okay…I'm not sure fair has anything to do with a good show, but fair enough. But why are you fixing the camera on the guy who's watching from the side instead of someone who's actually doing something?"

"He's having a fantastic inner-monologue."

"But there are two tributes right next to him and a huge arena all around, what does he have to be monologuing about?"

"Hey, this is a game of strategy. Those who don't think, die, Emeritus!"

"He's thinking about what he'll do?" Emeritus asked hopefully.

"No he's thinking about how badly he wants to stay himself."

"What? He's been stuck here two full days. He should be scrambling for food, he should be stressed out enough to be snappy." Emeritus paused. "If he kicks his ally out of the group making a good scene, he might get a weapon from sponsors."

Lucretia gave a disapproving cluck with her tongue. "What kind of psychopath do you think he is?"

"He could at least think about it. Why are they all so passive?"

"He's a nice guy," Lucretia said.

Ah yes, Emeritus recalled. Nice people don't ever have an aggressive thought. Besides, it's not like their crush had started dating another or they'd failed a crucial exams or other legitimately reasons to be short or feel paranoid. They were just about to die murdered.

* * *

><p><strong>12) Careers<strong>

Emeritus sighed at the predictability of it. "Why do the six careers always stick together? Why don't they off the remorseless psychopath who got an eleven in training? He could kill anyone of them without batting an eye."

"Careers don't kill each other before the last ten at earliest," Lucretia said with a smiled that revealed exactly what she thought of Emeritus's intelligence. "There's a greater chance of Careers winning if they stick together."

"Yeah, but a Career winning doesn't mean the Career who wins will be _you_. Don't they want to survive above all?"

"They're Careers. If they truly cared about life, they'd not have volunteered."

_Huh?_

* * *

><p><strong>13) Emotions<strong>

Berry had spent the whole last chapter mourning her dead ally. She thought of Lacie all the time, guilt burrowing at her insides.

She walked aimlessly around. She had no plan anymore. Not that she'd ever had one. She wanted to hide but didn't know where.

She didn't think of killing. It wasn't the last five yet. Only antagonists seriously thought of killing before the last five.

She was hungry. She needed to find a new ally or she would die.

Luckily, the arena got smaller as the days got on and tributes met much more often when six remained than when fifteen did. Admittedly, sometimes it was the Gamemakers' fault.

She recognized Sylvan. He was alone too. Berry thought of Lacie again and of all her backstory.

Berry slowly walked out so Sylvan could see her. He looked at her warily but they knew deep down that they were both decent people and that not even the Hunger Games could change that. They'd seen each other without ever speaking during training, but they were both certain enough to bet their lives on it.

Berry wasn't afraid of him. Why would she be? The Gamemakers were the enemy. Except Careers, Careers were _evil. _It would be irrational to be paranoid, and people during the Hunger Games were reasonable and civilized. Except those who went legitimately crazy. But that's what they were C-R-A-Z-Y.

And Berry had been right, Sylvan didn't refuse to share his meager food, food he knew he desperately needed. He sat down, and they talked about how awful the Games were, taking comfort in not being alone and still having no plan at all.

Only antagonists took initiatives. After all plans meant contemplating murder and murder was for antagonists.

When the Careers found them, Sylvan took Berry's hand to help her run faster, at the peril of his own life and when he got caught in a pit, Berry broke him out despite it costing her energy and precious time. Because tributes in the Hunger Games are selfless, never forget that.

* * *

><p><strong>14) Fourth wall<strong>

"Why doesn't she shout at the camera?"

"Nobody shout at the cameras. It's breaking the fourth wall."

"But he was her ally, Lucretia. They almost kissed! Look at her, she's devastated and her whole character is about being outspoken."

"Nobody shouts at the cameras or vocally acknowledges us Gamemakers or the fact their parents and loved ones are watching."

"She's almost slicing her wrists from grief! She's beyond reason."

Lucretia gave a long suffering sigh. "Even at the height of madness, even when they are dying and it doesn't matter anymore, tributes do not speak to the audience, Emeritus. Ever!"

Emeritus swallowed back a retort, deciding to defer to her experience. "Then, why does no-one beg? When they're alone, thirsty and lost? When a mutt is chasing them and only we can help them? Why don't they talk to us?" _He wanted to be talked to! He wanted the tributes to acknowledge that he was God as far as they were concerned!_

Lucretia shook her head, looking increasingly irritated.

"But what about that girl, the one who desperately wanted to tell her parents the truth? And the boy who spent two chapters moping about how badly he wanted to apologize to his brother? Why didn't he just tell the cameras?" Emeritus' eyes flew open. "What about the mentors, why do the tributes never try to ask the mentors something? Come on, that's _canon_!"

"_Nobody_," Lucretia said in final tones.

* * *

><p><strong>15) Arenas.<strong>

"What are you doing?"

Lucretia gave a fearsome cackle. "I'm making the volcano erupt and sending the harpy mutts attack the surviving tributes with their paintball guns."

"Right. Are you sure-"

"The tributes are boring. Screw interactions and give me EXPLOSIONS! Oh look, the illusion machine is back from maintenance, we can totally send ghosts of their dead relatives. It's going to be so much fun!"

Before Emeritus had a chance to protest, Lucretia laughed and slammed down a big red lever. "And now, the anti-gravity field!"

Emeritus's jaw was scraping the floor as the tributes began floating amidst amoeba-like pieces of molten lave. "How?"

"Technology," Lucretia said with a shrug. "By the way, have you read Harry Potter? A Hungarian Horntail would totally spice things up."

Emeritus blinked, his mind fizzing like an overcooked burger. "Some of those paintball guns look odd," he said weakly.

"Oh those are dimensional lasers. They make clothes invisible. Have you seen the blogs? Those underfed district whelps are hot!"

* * *

><p><strong>Bonus: flame-fodder for angry readers.<strong>

**This isn't a parody. This is me having a go at actually making a Hunger Games appropriate one-character centric scene after picking at all the things that irked me. So feel free to tear at me for daring to give you advice when my own writing is far from perfect.**

**It's an alternate to "Emotions"**

Berry took a deep breath. Her hands were trembling from lack of sleep. She could barely walk straight. Lacie was dead.

_DEAD._

The word echoed in her mind like tolling bells. Lacie was dead, and soon it would be her turn.

Berry screamed when a leaf brushed against her hair. She whipped her head around, her heart hammering madly. What if someone had heard her?

Whispers hid behind every plant and rock.

It's just the wind. Her brain rationalized. Just the wind. Get a hold of yourself Berry.

But what if it wasn't?

Berry ran. She needed to get out. Out, away, somewhere safe. Surely somewhere would be safe.

She ran faster that was sane or safe, until her body plainly_ refused_ to go on. Berry stopped, her arms across her stomach. She swallowed back the urge to throw up, tasting blood. She couldn't hurl. She'd die if she lost the little food she'd managed to scrounge.

Berry bit back an anguished scream. She was dying. She wasn't getting enough air in her lungs. They'd catch her and she'd die, her legs lead, gasping for breath.

She saw a shadow. She fell to her knees, hiding behind a cracked stone wall.

The ragged-looking boy was half-running, half-stumbling. He hadn't seen her. He looked unarmed but he had a rucksack. Sylvan, Berry remembered.

Berry put her hand into her mouth. She was so hungry and her sleep-deprived brain pictured scrumptious apple pies and juicy oranges in that sack. Just thinking about it brought tears to her eyes. She was so hungry.

She was too weak to rush to him. She couldn't risk overpowering him. She was afraid. He was a boy, and so much stronger than her, she'd be completely at his mercy. Her breath hitched, her eyes burning at the sheer unfairness of it. Why, why her? She was supposed to be at home, with her family, not in this hell.

She blinked her tears out, furious. She wouldn't break. She'd not give them the satisfaction. Her strength almost failed her when she realized her brother was probably seeing her right now.

Sylvan was almost a hundred yards away.

Suddenly Berry hated him. He had food. He had the food _she_ needed to go home. Who was he to deserve it? He was probably a coward, a murderer, nobody needed him like her brother needed her. Her cheeks burned with envy as saliva pooled in her mouth. She hated Sylvan like she had never hated before.

She had no choice. She had to make him give it to her, one way or another.

* * *

><p><strong>End note:<strong>

**In a nutshell, it's fine for some tributes to be passive or in denial, it's okay for some tributes to be ridiculously brave, extremely nice or loyal but it's not okay for all or even most tributes to be like that. Some tributes should be paranoid, angry, highly depressed and vocal about it, some should refuse to play along and be dragged by their escorts to training. Stage fright is a thing, some should be unable to answer Caesar's questions. Some tributes should be impulsive when stressed, and so they'll do stupid things. **

**In the arena, stress and fear should appear very very clearly. Tributes (at least some of them) will be expecting the worst of everyone they encounter, and even their allies.**

**In the same way, Careers should have a much superior set of skills, knowledge of former games, and a greater ability to keep their cool, not be cookie cutter villains who swing big swords but are fundamentally stupid. It should be hard for an untrained tribute to beat a Career, and almost impossible in a fair fight.**

****You'll notice I've said nothing on reaping chapters. So, just a tip. There's no rule which says you have to do a whole chapter about Reaping Day, especially if nothing happens on Reaping Day. If the scene that defines the character, a scene with interactions and an actual plot, not a monologue of the character facing a mirror (**_**puh-lease**_**), happens when the character is six years younger, then that's what you need to write.****

**Please review, discuss and point out anything I've forgotten^^.**


	2. Why should I care about that kid?

**I'm back to this, I have no idea if this is the last chapter or if I'll add to this parody/guide. The tone is a bit scathing, don't take it personally: Head Gamemaker Emeritus just has a short temper. **

**Any similarities with real SYOTS is purely coincidental.**

* * *

><p><strong>Today's topic: relatable tributes<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>1 - Great a backstory, and then what?<strong>

Head Gamemaker Emeritus grinned.

Before him stood forty-eight of his best spies from each of the twelve Districts. These were his submitters, District-born who had learned to love the Hunger Games.

"Today, I give you the chance to earn a pile of gold, ladies and gentlemen," he declared, puffing up his chest to look important. "Today, you shall suggest names, for the teenagers that shall be reaped. Those who give me someone I like shall be handsomely rewarded."

_Why risk having 24 boring tributes, when he had the power to rig the Games?_

Emeritus' enthusiasm quickly fell as he started reading the submission forms. He squinted at the first, dismayed to see it was just a hastily scribbled bullet point-list.

_'Two brothers, raised by his grandmother._ _Three best friends, they do everything together. Peacekeepers killed his eldest brother.'_

Emeritus started blinking away a head-ache. 'Brothers', _so?_ What did that mean? 'Friends', _okay_, but how did that reflect on the personality? 'Peacekeeper-caused tragedy', _interesting,_ but what were the consequences? What were those teenagers' ambitions, the values? What would be left once the tribute was torn away from his environment and left to fend for himself in the Capitol?

Lucretia was snorting not-so-discretely behind him. She was wearing body armor. Underwear-armor really, with runes and spikes and a very sexy design, pity Lucretia was pushing seventy-five. Emeritus swished his brilliant purple cloak to give himself countenance.

"I'm not sure you're getting the rules," Emeritus said after a while, biting back a sigh. These were District people, everybody knew their brains were underdeveloped, he shouldn't be too hard on them.

"I don't care about the tributes, but I want to care. I really do," Emeritus said, his voice gaining an exasperated edge. "Knowing their family situation or their set of skills won't make me care. I want to know _them_, how they think, what they feel."

The submitter from Eleven aggressively waived his paper at him. Personal space was evidently a foreign concept. "My boy's _perfect_! He's an orphan! He's got six starving siblings!"

"Who are retarded enough to mooch off the eldest instead of learning to survive on their own. They're no disabled, are they? _Your boy_ is a proud idiot who thinks he's being heroic by spoiling kids old enough to work. Good riddance! He'll be lucky to die in the Games instead of from a winter illness or a work accident. Snow knows these kill so many more than the Games... And anyway, he started providing for the six when he was twelve. His eldest sibling is now _fourteen_, they'll manage. _Or they'll die_. Lots of people are going to die," Emeritus said with a shrug. "Now give me something better than a cardboard cut out you slapped a tragic backstory on."

He started perusing the pile of papers, pained sighs escaping his lips. He should have gotten his eyes altered to roll back all the way. Maybe through fear he'd get a bit of competence...

"But she's the daughter of a rebel man who has a huge network," one of the spies from Five cried over the din, desperately handing him back the form he'd thrown away. "She knows all about manipulating people."

"A rebel who tells all his plans to his sixteen-year-old daughter, who tells _her _friends," Emeritus snapped. "She's and idiot and he's a fraud, the peacekeepers checked him out years ago. Our law enforcement is not deaf and blind. Give real rebels some credit, they're not _that _stupid."

"But since -"

"So they're rich, right? District Five is oppressed, you know _this is_ _Panem_." Emeritus raised his voice, vowing he'd send peacekeepers after anyone who failed _again_ to understand. "Ladies and Gentlemen, listen up! Allowing people free time is the best way to ensure rebellion. All your teenagers are either studying or working 12 hours a day, and they have been as soon as they're old enough to spell their names. That's how everything is so productive, we make sure they _produce._ Idleness is the privilege of the rich. If they're cutting school, they're taking the risk of being whipped. There's a roll call for attendance. The teachers have their addresses and will be also whipped if they cover for the little imps. Don't tell me your tribute spends the day roaming the streets with their friends, unless you tell me exactly how they're getting away with it, and why they do it in the first place."

Lucretia cleared her throat. She'd raised her cheekbones_ again_, so her facial expression range was non-existent. "Wait, isn't the Five girl the daughter of that rich guy who pretends he's a rebel to lure stupid youngsters with rebellious thoughts and then turn them in to the Capitol? We've been paying him for years. His daughter knows nothing of this. We swore to the man we wouldn't harm the kid and we give them some leeway precisely so they can recruit unsuspecting rebels."

Emeritus blinked. It was like a ray of pure sunshine suddenly illuminated his face. "Now that's different. That's very different, _I like that_. But, is the daughter really interesting aside from the backstory? Who's going to tell her the truth? Once hunger and fear kick in, she's dying quickly in the arena." His jaw clenched. _How he hated begging_. "Don't you have anyone who's a _personality_ rather than a backstory?"

"Wait," a submitter in the back called. "My boy is in love with his best friend! He loves to paint!"

"Yes, and where will the best friend be in the Capitol? Will he be mooning in a corner, depressed and weeping?" Emeritus said with a dramatic sigh.

"He's going to think about her: it'll motivate his alliance with a tough decent girl. He'll project so much he'll kill for his ally, but she won't be _her_, and he'll get angry once his bubble of denial breaks. He'll betray his ally, and then he'll realize he's changed, that he has no chance of getting his best friend back because he's a murderer. He'll realize he wants to live, but to make peace with himself, to find strength without the thought of his best friend being there for him when he came back –"

Emeritus stopped and motioned the silk-factory overseer forward. "I like you, you're starting to think. _Now_ the backstory matters because it's plot driving. So, that little boy from Eight, let's keep him."

Emeritus raised his hands when his acceptance gave way to an explosion of shouts as his informants shoved the others to show him their tributes.

"New thing, no backstory," Emeritus declared. "I want the tributes to be great for_ themselves_. So now, you're going to insert that form in the crystal ball, and it's going to show me how the tributes will behave."

* * *

><p><strong>2- Smile, it's Reaping Day!<strong>

Emeritus stared at the crystal ball, his dismay so thick he feared he'd never recover the ability to smile.

Fifteen of the eighteen reaped outliers had swallowed and walked forward when their names were called, standing tall and stoic for the cameras. Two of those who had showed some emotion were under fourteen, and the other had been established as hysterical already. As if you needed to be overemotional to be upset when your name was called on _Reaping Day._

"Basically they're all idiots," Emeritus snapped.

"No they're strong and brave," a woman protested.

"Bravery is being scared and overcoming that fear, not failing to see the disaster being reaped represents. A couple acting like this is shock, but fifteen? They're emotionally retarded. They don't seem to care about their own lives."

"That's not-"

Emeritus groaned. "If they care so little about being reaped, why should I care about them surviving?"

"They do care! But we can't have a tribute being too weak!"

Emeritus sighed at seeing such disheartening incomprehension on their faces.

"You can't have a huge majority being absurdly cool and collected, because it stops impressing anybody and makes it the new normal," Emeritus patiently explained through clenched teeth. "We can't have people thinking the Hunger Games isn't a big deal. If the tributes don't feel, how are we supposed to feel with them?"

"They can't all break down and cry –"

Emeritus shot the stupid man a withering glare. "Break down and cry? Is that the only alternative? How about being shocked and have to be pushed out, how about denial, being sure it was fear that had you hear your name. How about cursing the Capitol or thinking about running away? What reason do they have for coming quietly?"

"Because we'll string their families by the intestines if they don't?" Lucretia answered innocently, rubbing her hand lovingly on the handle of her jeweled staff.

"Thank you, Lucretia," Emeritus said with a worrisome smile. "I don't mind them being outwardly stoic because they're terrified for their families and have seen people whipped before for misbehaving during the reapings, but if it's because _they're just that unflappable_, I won't relate."

And he just didn't sponsor those he couldn't relate to, unless they really, _really_ were original. Not I-have-a-conjoined twin original, or look-my-weapon-of-choice-is-a-frigging-katana original, but I-have-legit-blackmail-on-a-rebellious-victor-that-Snow-would-be-happy-to-hear-about, or I-can't-feel-pain-and-I-am-going-to-use-it-to-my-advantage, original.

* * *

><p><strong>3- Actors demanded! Sponsors to be won! <strong>

Emeritus almost slammed the crystal ball against the wall the fifth time someone said they wanted to be themselves. When that person was a Career, he screamed in sheer frustration and shot one of the submitters, splattering blood over the crowd.

Two of them fainted, another one tried to grasp a peacekeeper's gun, desperate to save his own life.

A deep, hysterical laugh built up in Emeritus' chest and burst out of his lips. He was shaking so hard the gun dropped out of his hands . "Oh look at you," he whispered, "you're more fun than your tributes, at least you don't sit there like ducks, going through the motions and gently waiting to die."

Emeritus turned back towards the crystal ball, a look of pure loathing on his face. "_Be themselves,_ you mean the nice boring kid who'll never kill and deserves a six in training if the Gamemakers are feeling kind? Fine, they're _dead. _Don't bother me with them anymore."

"But no, they-"

"Don't confuse relatable with stupid. They don't want to kill, they want to be loyal and trustworthy, and that's to their credit, but at least give them the brains to choose this because of_ values_, not because they think it's _a good idea to get sponsors_."

"But –"

"This is a_ show_. That's why they need an angle, a larger-than-life personality. Depressed, moaning tributes or just strong silent types don't make for interesting TV."

"You said you wanted regular people, now you want them strong, make up your mind!"

Emeritus recharged his gun. "Next stupid question, and I'll shoot. They need to _pretend_ to be something they're not, not to _be_ absurdly calm. Then, whatever happens will happen: they can change their minds, they can realize they're not cut out for it or that their angle was crap."

"They can't all be actors!"

"Indeed," Emeritus said, gritting his teeth painfully. "They don't have to be _good_ at it. Some will fail pathetically at pretending. But if they don't even_ try_, I'll start to believe they don't want to come back alive."

"But what if the tribute-"

The woman's question was cut short when the silver bullet went right through her eye.

"There are _always _exception," Emeritus roared. "There's always that guy who's too much in denial, that girl too young or too stubborn, but they're _exceptions_."

He shot another man for good measure.

* * *

><p><strong>4- Caesar Flickerman needs some help <strong>

"So, how're you finding the Capitol?" Caesar said cheerfully from inside the crystal ball.

Emeritus already knew he would regret catching a glimpse of the future Interview Night.

"Loving it. Sponsor me, I'm awesome!" The Career bellowed.

"How's your family feeling?"

"They're lovely people. They're cheering me on."

Emeritus' eyes widened. Muscle-man had a _nice family_, a great future ahead of him, and he'd willingly volunteered? A moron, this kid was an utter moron.

"And we're cheering with them," Caesar exclaimed above the crowd's cheers. "Why are you more awesome than the others?"

"Because I am! I got a ten. I'm awesome! I'll win!"

Lucretia sighed at Emeritus' appalled expression.

"You need to unclench those buttocks of yours, Emeritus. He's funny."

Emeritus didn't deem her comment worthy of a reply. He picked up the phone and called the training center of Two. "Head Instructor," he said, his voice a warning hiss, "those Career training centers of yours, they're staying open because you give us entertaining tributes. I don't mind the occasional beefed-up idiot, but this is going too far. Stop selecting them as if you don't want your district to win."

"Wait, we're selecting them?" The Instructor said.

Emeritus saw red. "That money for Career trainees, it's the Capitol's. The fact teenagers aren't working, _producing_ for the Capitol but allowed to train instead, that's because we want Careers that keep the Hunger Games entertaining, and later loyal Victors that can keep an eye on the outliers who make it out. Your children are safe from the reapings, saved by those Careers, because you give us something in return, _so stop sending us incompetent idiots_!" He screamed in the phone.

The Instructor's voice was barely more than a squeak. "But that girl who volunteered on her own?"

"Did she know that her family and closest friends would pay for it with their lives, that us Gamemakers would rig the arena against her and kill her as soon as she stopped being interesting? That she had no chance in Hell of winning?"

A pause. "Yes."

"If it's yes, then it's fine, I'm sure her motives will make her interesting."

Emeritus took a deep breath once he was back before the crystal ball.

"So, what's Nine like?" In-ball Caesar asked the outlier.

"Lots of fields," the girl said. "I help my father with the truck, unload the grain and everything."

"And it got you nice muscles too! What can you say about your family?"

"I have a little brother. He'll starve to death if I don't come back."

"That's so tragic. How will you fight, girl?"

She gave him a coy mysterious smile. "You'll just have to see."

Emeritus thought he was going to weep. Not only was every single outlying tribute answering questions calmly as if this wasn't their last day before the arena, their last chance to get a head start in murder games but - "CAESAR!"

"Yes?" Caesar Flickerman's teeth where so white that Emeritus had to put on sunglasses.

"What year is this?"

"72nd Games, Sir."

"Why are you asking, _on the 72__nd__ Games_, what the Districts are like? Are you in front of a kindergarten audience?"

Caesar gave Emeritus a bright embarrassed smile. "Hey, they don't have angles. I have to make them say _something_."

"Your job is to make us want them to come home intact, not ask factual questions that don't reveal an ounce of the tribute's personality. If there's no drama, create it! Invent enemies, spread rumors, get the conflict and suspense going, and by God, make them interesting!"

"It can't work if the tributes don't play along," Caesar said with a sigh. "They're just not prepared to do what they must and they don't even get angry or flustered, what I am supposed to do? Even District One Careers don't realize it's the sponsors that demand they be outrageously sexy, they just genuinely have no self-respect."

Emeritus narrowed his eyes. He swished his cloak and called an emergency meeting.

* * *

><p><strong>5 - That's why tributes have mentors.<strong>

"Do you know why you're here?"

Sitting in a semi-circle around Emeritus were mentors, drunk, stoned, glaring or blank-faced victors from previous Games, every single one of them with a disgraceful outfit that would have been vintage already last season.

"You are here to tell the tributes about the Capitol," Emeritus said, his voice thick with warning. "You are here to remind them that the Capitol wants drama. That they need to exaggerate, to _lie,_ during the interviews. You have a job. I don't want to see you in each chapter, you're secondary and I know some of you are literally useless, but your influence had better be there. I want to see tributes, not all of them, but at least a fair number _playing_. And when they refuse to play, I want a reason."

Emeritus slammed his fist on the table closest to him when the mentors failed to react, his fat golden rings digging deep marks in the soft wood.

"For example, Seeder, if you don't want Eleven to suffer, you're going to tell me exactly why your dear Oleander, who has so much rage inside him, merrily answered Caesar's questions as if he'd spoken in front of an audience all his life and had no care in the world."

Seeder nodded once, her jaw clenched. "I talked to him of course," she said tightly.

As Seeder concentrated, the past changed.

* * *

><p>"So, interview with Caesar, my best chance at sponsors," Oleander said, spitting the words.<p>

They'd give him just enough for his death to be spectacular.

"I'm going to kill him," he vowed, his clenched fists shaking in hate.

"No," Seeder said. Oleander bit his jaw. She looked furious. She'd been kind, solid, she'd tried to get him strong enough to handle the knowledge he'd die, but now his mentor looked furious.

"I'm not an idiot. There's been hundreds of tributes before me. We could shout every one of our rebellious thoughts in their faces and they'd just laugh. I need to do something that means something!"

It was people's biggest weakness, thinking they had a chance to win. It put them in chains, kept them all quiet and nice. He'd die. He knew it and that made him free.

"No, they'd be happy. Knowing that District people want to kill them is the reason they don't feel guilty about the Hunger Games," Seeder said, sitting down next to him. "The dangerous tributes are the ones who are innocent and civilized, but competent enough to show their death is a waste."

Oleander wasn't going to count on Capitolites feeling guilty because he was _civilized._ If he was going to die, he'd do the work himself.

"I have nothing to lose, they can't hurt me." But his voice cracked at the last, because Seeder had that frown, that anger etched on her face. It was like being twelve again, with Mom cuffing him when he said something stupid.

"They'll avox a thousand people in Eleven and execute a thousand more. They won't care if it's people you knew. They'll whip bloody anyone who dared cheer in every District. Caesar would be dead, but there'd be a replacement eventually. But this is all useless talk," Seeder said. She looked so worn now. "Can you kill him in four seconds?"

"What?"

"There are peacekeepers with tranquilizer guns just out of sight on the interview stage. Just like there are cameras in this room. Caesar will know of your plan by tomorrow," Seeder said, her eyes bright. "If the Capitol was ruled by fools, the Districts would have broken their shackles long ago, Oleander."

Oleander paled. "You won't get in trouble?" He breathed after a while. _Had he gotten Seeder in trouble?_

His mentor chuckled, it was choked. "What's wrong with telling you that you are powerless, Oleander? Snow is convinced by default that non-Career victors are treasonous, and he barely trusts the Careers more."

"But… Caesar helps us! Without Caesar the interviews -"

"Would be so _boring_, the tributes so pathetic, that the audience would dwindle, and worse, maybe people would get bored of the Hunger Games, if the tributes aren't entertaining enough, if they don't put up a fight -" Seeder chuckled again, a strangled laugh heavy with years and years of holding teenagers' hands until they were murdered before her eyes. "The most rebellious thing you can do, Oleander, is to commit suicide and deprive them of the entertainment. And we'd still pay the price."

"That only would work if half of us committed suicide."

"Yes," Seeder said simply, her eyes far away.

Oleander brought his knees to his chin. He was dead. He was powerless.

He thought of Basil, who would shout at them all day long to work harder but who he'd caught singing softly to his children, of old Clementine, who walked a bit more crooked every year but who cracked the most awful jokes and put a smile on all their faces, of that cute dipshit Kale, who took a grown man's work despite being fourteen and never complained, throwing insults at them to make himself sound tough because he couldn't well insult peacekeepers. Oleander realized he couldn't get them killed.

So during the Interviews, he played it cool, he played it angry, he bared his teeth and said he hated all the other tributes for being between him and victory, and the Capitol cheered.

* * *

><p>Emeritus smiled. "Was it that difficult, Seeder? To find a reason the tributes all cooperate, rather than pretend they're<em> just that tough<em>? Beetee, doesn't your girl love her siblings? Didn't she have a _personality_?"

"Are you asking why she did not wish to rip Caesar's head off when he dared ask her about her family? When he, so rich and powerful, said he was sad for her and yet will do nothing to help?"

"I am," Emeritus said coolly.

Beetee readjusted his glasses. "I had two choices, one, tell her to lie. When rage and grief would bring tears to her eyes, I could have had told her to say that she was upset because she couldn't bear to leave so soon, to say that if people were shown the truth of the Capitol's beauty, and given a chance to be part of it, the Districts would work so much harder and never rebel."

Lucretia snorted so hard she almost lost her fake eyelashes. "Like Snow would ever allow that."

"She doesn't know that, socialites don't know that for sure either," Emeritus said. Where were the tributes who claimed to speak with dead spirits? The ones who forged a pretend-rivalry so entertaining it would guarantee their survival in the arena until one killed the other? The ones who made lavish promises to their sponsors –after all, everyone knew the girls from One and the prettiest outliers weren't sponsored because they had high training scores-. Where were the ones with some _spunk_? "She will learn the truth if she wins."

"Yes," Beetee said, fury flashing briefly in his dark eyes.

"But she didn't do any of that," Emeritus pointed out. "No tears, no anger. She simply acted docile with a touch of sadness, like all the others."

"She is proud, and I doubted she could handle speaking before such a large crowd," Beetee said calmly. "So I drugged her food, to make her very calm."

Emeritus frowned. Beetee's decision had destroyed a potential for drama, but at least it explained the girl from Three's behavior.

"Fine," he granted.

* * *

><p><strong>6 - Maybe Haymitch wears Taffeta...<strong>

_The escort was wearing a saffron taffeta gown, split and attached back in weird places, and long earrings with tourmaline and obsidian pendants carved to mimic dancing people and swinging to the wind. Her shoes were coated in silk, with tiny opals shaping the brand's initials._

Emeritus, his telepathic helmet strapped on, nudged the tribute who was standing there transfixed by Effie Trinket's clothes.

"Dude, you sure you're from Twelve?"

The tribute frowned, pale at being addressed directly by the Head Gamemaker.

"Pretty sure," he said hoarsely.

"Where did you learn how to describe an outfit with all the right technical terms and color nuances?"

The boy swallowed. "Capitol TV shows us all that stuff. I had pneumonia as a kid, said six months in bed. I was alone with that TV during the day. It got etched in my mind."

Emeritus nodded slowly, a frown still on his face. "Okay, you're off the hook."

A few weeks later, the Hunger Games were on.

"Ooh, kid's going to take on the big doggy!" Lucretia said, using the screen in the Gamemakers' control room to put a second layer of makeup on. She was starting to look eerily like a cat. Emeritus squinted at her heap of black-and-silver hair. _Were those literal feline ears peaking through?_

His gaze fell to where Lucretia was watching, slowly moving towards a very still dog in the apocalypse-city arena. Emeritus had put a veto on zombies, aside from projections to freak the tributes out, but they'd brought in horrifying mutt dogs to add some chaos. Nothing too dangerous, just good TV.

"What's up?" he said.

The girl started at the Head Gamemaker's sudden appearance but then just shrugged. It had been two weeks, she was hungry and she was beyond giving a damn. "Keep your voice down. I want dog-steak," she whispered.

She moved expertly, confidently, taking advantage of the mutt's interest for her blood stained backpack to get within striking distance with her blade. She killed it with one powerful strike to the neck when it started growling and nuzzling her bag.

"So, uhm, anticipating dog behavior, knowing enough dog anatomy to kill in one strike? Wagering that the mutt will behave like an actual domesticated dog..." Emeritus enumerated. "You sure you're a Three?"

"Everyone knows that," the girl said, cutting out a chunk of the dog's leg and taking a bite of raw meat.

"Had you ever seen a dog before?"

"No, but I knew this one wasn't going to attack," she replied, munching feverishly through the meat and grimacing at the taste.

"Why?"

The girl frowned, realizing she was about to lose some believability points. "Because it's big, big enough to shred most tributes apart. Those mutts have to be here just for the fear factor, or we'll all die by mutts, and that's not entertaining. So you Gamemakers gave us mostly docile dogs." She smiled. "See, logical thinking."

Emeritus granted her a small smile. "Better, girl. So you killed a big dog with a knife? First time ever trying it?"

"No, I got it to stay still enough to press that chloroform filled blanked on its nose, remember?" She said nervously. "I found it in the ruins." She brightened slightly. "So, do I get sponsors?"

Emeritus blinked. _Yes, yes, that was it_. He remembered the chloroform now.

* * *

><p><strong>7 - Gamemakers don't play fair.<strong>

"She's refusing to fight, look, she's telling the whole alliance not to fight. She's telling them to hoard supplies, stop moving," Lucretia said, steam coming out of her ears. Both the real and the cat ones.

Emeritus smiled. Oh rebel tributes were so cute. "She wants to show the world we're the ones doing the killing, that we are the _true_ murderers?" He chuckled. "How noble!"

He pushed a button, sending a couple of huge eagle mutts to get the rebellious girl.

Using the computer to mimic her voice, he made her say "I'll win and destroy the Capitol," when she had snarled in the direction of the camera.

The largest golden eagle grabbed her in its claws while the smaller stayed close enough to film with the camera on its chest. They swooped through the ruins, giving all watchers an unprecedented view of Emeritus' beautiful arena while the girl screamed. Visually, it was great TV and no one in the Capitol liked threats.

Pity, in a fair arena, she might have survived. But that was why they had Gamemakers.

He sent a sponsor parachute to each tribute, with a crust of bread and a small list with their loved one's names. They cooperated real nice after that.

* * *

><p><strong>Morals of the day: <strong>

Backstory doesn't make a tribute relatable if it's just facts, no matter how tragic, nor is it a substitute for plot and character development.

Making tributes feel emotions doesn't make them weak, making tributes act like robots doesn't make them strong. Not being afraid or paranoid in the Hunger Games, especially if the tribute is supposed to be in the 'normal' spectrum, is the sign of a defective brain. Strength is being able to handle the pressure and make the right choices _despite their emotions._

The Capitol thrives on drama, any tribute who wants to play (so it's an absolute must for Careers) needs an angle for sponsors. Tributes who act like themselves are very rarely entertaining (and those who are don't tend to be the normal ones).

Additional advice: if you can, keep the tributes realistic considering what District they come from. Not all Threes have to be hyper-rational and all Sevens heavy-duty axe-wielding types, but there should be some coherence.

**Please leave a review and feel free to discuss any of the points above^^.**


	3. Who's that again?

**And I'm back to this. Thank you all for reading.**

**This chapter is about something more subtle and yet way too common in SYOTS.**

**Today's topic : authors, you know your characters, hopefully you love them. You could rattle off their names, district numbers, ages and physical appearance in your sleep (if you can't, shame on you). But us poor readers, we're really not that good at keeping 24 people straight, so please, make it easier for us.**

**The second part of this chapter is about ignorance and stupidity (tributes', not authors'), and more generally, such wasted occasions for great tension and plot.**

* * *

><p><strong>1) Names, numbers, colors, and my poor poor memory.<br>**

On the screen, Xandra ran, her feet digging into the mud. Behind her, Lucia was wheezing, struggling to keep up.

« Hey Eight, over here!»

Lucia turned, only to see District Ten throw a butcher's knife straight at her. She tried to duck but tripped, falling head first into the mud. "Eight you bloody traitor!" she screamed as the muscled redhead ate the remaining distance between the two of them, a second knife in his right hand.

"Wait," Crassus, the Capitol's it-boy and one of the most sought after sponsors, said, squinting at the screen. "Why is Lucia screaming at herself?"

Marcella sighed. Crassus' older sister was _always_ sighing. "_Xandra_ is from District Eight, Crassus. Lucia is a Five."

Crassus noticed that Miss-know-it-all had a list of tributes projected on her huge gleaming techno-monocle.

"You're cheating. I shouldn't need a list to remember who's who."

"Keep up," Marcella scoffed. "If your brain can't manage that in its peak years, I'll disown you before you hit thirty."

As if she could. Marcella paraded her precious brains because she looked like a shrew despite enhancements. Admittedly, she was more like average-pretty, but Crassus made everyone, except maybe Finnick Odair, look bad.

He rolled his irresistible purple eyes. "Well between the last recap and now, I had a party, Uncle E took me to the casino, I watched a rerun of old Games and yeah, I kinda forgot. It doesn't help that they switch between name, district number, and vague description words like 'brunette' to label each other."

Marcella sighed again. "Not everyone can remember their fellow tribute's names. Numbers can be easier, and less personal. It also makes sense they'd give people nicknames when they can't remember the name."

Crassus granted her a nod, exasperated. He hated when she was 100% right and yet so wrong.

"The District Ten boy," Marcella said, her lips quirking because she was that big a showoff, "was reminding Xandra of the pact they'd made to ally if they survived the bloodbath."

Crassus frowned. Capitol girls paid for photographs of that frown. "I thought that the alliance plan was with Korry." He blinked. "Korry is from District _Ten_?"

He bristled when his sister unabashedly laughed at him. Marcella was still chuckling as she left the room, doubtless to make a sandwich or something.

Crassus pulled a face. "Alriiiight, so _Korry _is the guy from Ten. But before -" He mentally, and angrily, crossed out his sketchy list of tributes. There was no way he'd stoop to looking at the reapings again.

"Call him Sheep. Aries. Taurus. Name him Hoofe!" He groaned, staring daggers at the screen. "Yes it's ridiculous, but it screams _Ten_ so I'll frigging remember where he comes from."

"No tribute named _Hoofe_ will ever win." His busybody sister called from the kitchen. "That's a spoiler right there in the name."

"Spoiler to you: it's not about the victor, it's about the _Games_," Crassus shot back. "And honestly, Woof? Gloss? Chaff? Seeder? They made themselves respectable despite their names, didn't they? Hoofe fits right in."

**No, you don't have to name your tribute Hoofe. But please try to seamlessly insert in the text stuff that remind us who is from where (tributes could use District-related metaphors for example), especially in the early chapters.**

* * *

><p><strong>2: Age isn't just a number.<strong>

« Snow, he's so stupid. Did he really think the other guy- »

« He's twelve years old, Crassus. You tried to snort glue at that age. »

« Oh, right, he is. He's pretty clever then. »

Crassus groaned. _Twelve?_ He'd forgotten. He'd have to play back old footage to make sense of the little tyke now that he'd realized the boy wasn't just aggressively immature and _now_ the Career's plan to have him as an ally finally made sense. Why kill the twelve-year-old and look bad in front of cameras when you could use him for cutesy points?

**Luckily, tributes should care about each other's age so it shouldn't be hard to make it naturally appear in the text.**

* * *

><p><strong>3: Physical aspect matters.<strong>

Training in the Capitol

"I'll protect you!" Sooty vowed, her confidence born of years of hardship. "I'm not scared to do what must be done."

Crassus howled in laughter at the leaked training footage. "Marcella, come here! There's a kid shorter than your pony who's getting all charismatic!"

"Be kind, I also took myself seriously at fourteen." She sighed at the two older tributes who were staring uneasily at Sooty. "Upperclassmen definitely did_ not_ take me seriously though. Poor girl could do with a few alterations, look at those teeth," she shuddered.

**Maybe Sooty is indeed the next Superwoman. But imagine that you're eighteen and a short, plain, 14-year-old (who's a complete stranger) tells you to trust her with your life, would you take the bet? **

* * *

><p><span>The arena<span>

Crassus stared at Koring from Eleven. The boy was _nuts_.

"That kid is 4'5 and attacking a guy that's well over 5'5, with a blunt stick. I get that the bigger bloke is unarmed but… Did he suddenly forget what he looks like?"

Crassus snorted when the big guy ran away. "Dude, dignity."

**Physical appearance can matter just as much as age. I'm not talking about how hot someone is (how hot is anyone after two days in an arena?). Girl/boy can matter since most people aren't gender blind (I don't mean in romantic scenarios, I mean trust and fear factor, power plays, compassion etc.)**

* * *

><p><strong>3: Adjectives.<strong>

The blonde wiped his brow, handing a dagger to the brunette next to him.

"Wait, _which_ brown-haired guy?"

"Context," Marcella tutted, peering from behind her magazine. "The only blond and brunette allied are Nine and Three."

Crassus shot his sister a sideways glance. Like he paid attention to hair color. Why couldn't the focus be on _relevant_ attributes? "Who? And why would District Three not want to carry the vials?"

"He's the clumsy one, remember the reapings? Name's Jack."

"Riiiiight." _Jack_. _Of course, Jack._ Crassus cracked his knuckles in annoyance.

How could he enjoy the tension if he couldn't remember who'd done what? If he went by the other years he often got it by the end first week of the Games, but by then he'd missed most of the more subtle character development cues of the early days.

"Doesn't Jack have a quirk?" Crassus wondered. "A catchphrase? Something he can't shut up about? Something distinctive that'll make me think, _Three! Yep, that's Jack!_ _The guy who's been cheating his arse off at school to be eligible for healthcare benefits or his mom will die! Mom issues, right, that's why he's allied to whats-his-name who's also got mommy issues!_"

"And he's interesting, our Jack," Marcella pointed out. "Remember when he lied when Lucia could overhear, knowing she'd tattle to her allies?"

"He lied?" Crassus said dumbly. He'd just thought Jack had had a psychopath moment. He wasn't sure he'd really registered that it had been Jack who had said that line anyway.

"No duh," Marcella said. "You seriously bought that? That was totally out of character for Jack!"

"Sis, something subtle like that, I'll never, ever, catch it unless it's shouted on every roof top."

**MORAL: the writer thinks that because we don't know who'll 'matter' in the long term, we pay close attention to everyone. The truth is that we need to be grabbed by the eyeballs and given our time's worth to do more than passively read a chapter. Readers tend to take at face value whatever it is the narrating character is talking about. **

**By the last 15-10 in the arena, we're usually up to date on who's who, but before that (especially if it's a while between updates), we really need landmarks and reminders on District, age, quirks, backstory, motivations etc. Otherwise, the character's just not memorable.**

* * *

><p><strong>PART TWO: Allow your tributes to be ignorant. It's not the same as stupid.<strong>

**1) No easy Google for Panem.**

Tiara intercepted the thrown knife with a contemptuous smile. That runt thought he could take _her_? She almost stumbled, struck by a sudden dizzy spell.

"Haha, you're dead," Willow said, grinning at the tiny scratch on the Career's fingers.

Tiara raised her eyebrow, hiding her sudden weakness. "Very much alive still. Any last words?"

Willow stared, all color slowly sucked from his face. "But… but I rubbed nightlock juice all over them!"

"Oh honey, the juice is useless when it's dry." _Almost useless._ Tiara plastered a small smile on her face, her heart hammering in her chest. She had to sit down.

Shock had sucked the fight out of Willow. Maybe he'd have shaken himself within seconds, but Tiara didn't give him the chance. She smiled for the cameras, sensually bending over to retrieve her weapon and planting a parting kiss on Willow's forehead.

She allowed herself half a minute to recuperate, gratefully accepting the water bottle in the parachute landing next to her.

_Cheer up, runt. Sponsors decided that you were worth worth more than the last girl I killed. I just got half a liter for her, and one full liter of water for you._

Tiara's eyes narrowed at the ground. _Tracks._ She followed Willow's trail up to his campsite. Her mouth watered at the thought of supplies. Droplets of cold sweat rolled down her neck at the thought of _Nightlock_ in her blood. _Temporary dizziness, that's all._ She'd be fine soon. She had to.

Tiara chuckled upon seeing Willow's shelter. It was sturdy alright and in a spot that almost blocked the howling wind, but he must have built it in the evening, or he'd have realized he was exposed to the scorching sun and had built his very own furnace. There's no way he could have spent a day in there without fainting from the heat.

"Oh, yuck," she muttered.

Strips of crudely cut maggot-filled meat littered the ground. They looked like Willow had been in a rage and thrown them away. Tiara was impressed the runt had killed a mutt. There's no other way he'd have gotten meat. Pity he'd not known to cook the meat immediately after killing the creature. A backpack was no protection against flies.

A sudden noise made Tiara stiffen.

Someone was there. Right behind the trees. No one untrained would be so quiet.

She couldn't take on the Twos like this. She ran.

Later Tiara cursed herself for being so skittish. She'd been so wound up about the nightlock she'd let the wind scare her away from perfectly good supply. Now she had to find someone else to kill or starve. Sponsors had to be laughing at her.

* * *

><p><strong>2) Having straight As in electronics doesn't make you an expert camper.<strong>

Jack threw away his soaked, stinky, five-day-old and all over foul socks, and massaged his swollen, sweaty feet. Everything out here was trying to get him except the shoes. He'd never had such comfortable shoes. The Capitol obviously wanted him to walk and run unhindered.

Two days later, Jack, crying from the pain, threw away his useless shoes.

_Why had he been so stupid? Why hadn't he realized he badly needed those stinky socks?_

_Why hadn't any Hunger Games recaps, ever, mentioned that socks were important! _The fact that his stupidity would probably never make the day's cut, that his feet just weren't _interesting_ enough to be shown during compulsory viewing time, didn't make him feel any better.

**Note that Jack isn't dead because of that mistake, just in trouble. It doesn't have to be an 'either nothing happens or you're dead' deal every time. **

**MORAL:** **These are teenagers who have seen very little of the world. They have seen previous Games but the Games recaps focus on the action and interesting parts, not so much on the day to day survival stuff. ****Even Tiara, who's trained, made a false assumption because of paranoia (and because if she'd stayed and waited, she might have been killed). Note that "ignorant/stupid" can make you unpredictable and can work in your favor (even against Careers).**

* * *

><p><strong>3) Another sadly underwritten type of stupid:<strong>

Chevvy hurriedly twisted the cap off the water bottle. They barely could afford to stop but he'd faint if he didn't take a sip. He could barely hear himself think from the terrified thumping of his heart.

"Hurry up!"

Chevvy jumped, startled. He desperately fumbled with the bottle, his breath knocked out of his lungs when he saw it fall on the slanted ground.

In less than three seconds the dry earth had swallowed up the last of his water.

"Shit," Lacie said.

Chevvy narrowed his eyes at her, fury and despair making his whole body shake.

"Why did you shout?" He'd not have dropped the damn thing if she'd shut up! "Give me your water."

Lacie stepped back. "I need it."

Chevvy was so thirsty it hurt. "I need it more," he said, roughly grabbing the girl and lunging for her backpack.

She screamed, trying to punch him but the stronger boy had her off balance. He barely hissed when her dirty nails raked his cheek.

He pushed her down and finally tore the pack from her. He grabbed the water bottle and took huge swallows, not even pausing to breathe. He didn't register anything else as the blessed liquid ran down his parched throat.

When he'd finished, Chevvy realized he was alone. _Ouch. His cheek stung._ With his mind no longer a nest of angry wasps, the full import of what he'd done crashed down upon him. He'd _attacked _and lost his ally. They'd been shouting in the open. While the Careers were chasing them.

He was fucked. _Lacie, Lacie come back, I'm so sorry!_

He sprinted off like he'd never ran before, mindless of the stitch building in his sides.

**I almost NEVER read stuff like that. If allies fight, it's almost always because of rational reasons. If people attack each other, ditto. People listen up: thirst, hunger and fear make people do crazy things, and that's a **_**frigging fabulous plot driving force**_**. USE IT!**

* * *

><p><strong>4)Now a sadly <em>overwritten<em> type of stupid.**

Lacie breathed as shallowly as she could, desperate to keep her presence hidden. She was so glad for the chattering birds. Tiara jumped at the slightest odd sound, but even distracted by fear, the Career from One had a lethal grace to each of her gestures. Lacie knew that one wrong move would sign her death warrant. And that bitch Tiara would probably make it slow and painful.

But Lacie needed those weapons. She'd not be stupid enough to trust anyone else again. She winced, pushing Chevvy out of her mind. Tiara would lead Lacie straight to the feast. Lacie would finally get knives, and not a thin two-inch one that the Gamemakers had put in her small camping pack just to mock her. Those fat, deadly knives would finally make her dangerous. Just grip them tight, slash and lunge. Lacie felt she could do this.

Lacie stiffened, pressing her body against the tree as hard as she could, when Tiara abruptly stopped. _Had she been spotted? _Through the thick leaves, Lacie saw Tiara twirl her own knife, muttering nasty things to herself, a cruel smile on her lips. She managed to still look beautiful, even with hair full of resin and dirt. _How Lacie hated her._ She almost kicked a stone in helpless rage, her heart hammering violently. _No, she couldn't break now._

Tiara was off again. It looked like she had found a trail. _Koring maybe?_ Everybody had underestimated the short boy, but it was too late now to consider allies. Lacie wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Carefully, she followed after Tiara.

Trailing Tiara was easier than grabbing one of the many, many rocks lying all around her. Much easier than taking a big stick, or breaking off a tree branch, and making the point sharp with her little knife, and then, if Lacie remembered the survival training, a bit of fire. Yes, taking the risk of being killed by a Career, of coming out in the open unarmed to grab weapons everybody was going to kill to get, was _definitely_ worth it. It was so much safer than grabbing just about any of the thousand weaponizable things in lying about on the arena floor.

Lightheaded with relief _-She had her knives! She was alive!-_ Lacie never noticed Chevvy. She gasped, her scream blocked in her throat, when something hard and chafing strangled her. She flailed around uselessly, her fingers desperately trying to loosen the strip of jeans wrapped solidly around her throat.

_No, no!_

Chevvy, his jeans ripped to the knee and his legs full of bleeding scratches, forced her to her knees. "I don't want to kill you, Lacie," he said hoarsely, "but I _need_ those knives."

**Strips of clothes, rocks, mutt bones, chair legs, anything you can find in the arena and reuse. Stop being obsessed by traditional weapons and supply kits and get creative, people!**

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><p><strong>Bonus questions: What's the name of the girl from District Five? What color is Korry's hair? What was the name of the guy Tiara killed? What District is Jack's ally from? What District is Koring from?<strong>

**If you can answer all that without scrolling back up, you're undermining the whole point of this chapter and I hate you. (Kidding, you've just got an awesome memory^^).**

**Please review.**


	4. On poverty and peacekeepers

**This is more 'food for thought' than humor unlike the previous chapters. I had this drafted out and rewritten many times in the last two years, and for my own sanity, it's better that I just get it over with^^.**

**First, a show of hands: who thinks you can reliably wound someone with a throwing knife (I mean by that a metal blade with a well-balanced hilt, with the whole being less than a foot long)? ****Fiction **_**loves**_** those knives. In reality it's almost impossible, even with a lot of practice. Google it if you don't believe me.**

**Why did I ask that? To show you that fiction shapes our thinking even when we know it's fiction. And when it's very real subjects like poverty, fiction can cause a lot of damage.**

**Writers have power, and with great power comes great responsibility.**

* * *

><p><strong>First, an appetizer:<strong>

Adira was poor. She was _soooo_ poor. She repeated it every other line, anguish thick in her voice and her shoulders hunched under the weight of too many responsibilities.

Adira hoped to be seen as brave and devoted, but what Adira didn't hear, was how everyone whispered how _evil_ she was.

Adira and her five siblings had become orphans after Dad had died of a cough. The waiting lists for the doctor had stretched to after the winter, and Mom had snuck past the overworked hospital staff and stolen all the medicine she could pocket. The medicine had been all the wrong kind, and just brought peacekeepers to their door. Adira's father had died without his wife at home.

Adira had begged her uncle to come live with them, because anything was better than the community home and kids couldn't leave all alone. He was a cold man, who never spent a penny he earned on anything other than himself.

So it was up to her. She'd been barely twelve.

Now she was sixteen and she worked from dawn to dust and took tesserae for all her siblings. Her siblings, even the teenagers, went to school and then came back home to laze around, fool around and be innocent and show everyone what a great role model Adira was.

After dinner, Adira cleaned the house, each and every room of her siblings, who each had their own room, because…. _Because_. She also did the laundry, while her siblings repeated how selfless she was and how they would be lost without her. She beamed, her heart full of love.

But the neighbors knew the truth. She was raising selfish little dependent monsters. Not even her thirteen year old brother so much as cooked dinner. She was using 'innocence' as an excuse to make sure they would die if she ever got ill, had an accident, or Panem forbid, be reaped.

**So: this is Panem. A land where a teenager can be sole provider for a family of six, the kids are always reasonably well behaved and manageable (but useless, generally), and the house is clean and not falling to pieces. Working single moms of America, Adira is doing it, why can't you manage it? Get off your Welfare-fattened lazy asses and get to work!**

**On a more serious note: dear writers, I've seen at least twenty versions of Adira, _please_ think about what you're writing. **

**In canon, Katniss' Mom was a healer, Katniss hunted, and she had just **_**one**_** sister, who also healed (and I imagine not completely for free). They had a goat on top of that, and they were dirt poor, so don't feel the need to make your characters three times poorer. **

**Lastly, Katniss pointed out that Twelve was unique in that it had laws preventing kids under 18 from going to work (in the mines in this case). Probably because some ethics committee in the Capitol felt happy about themselves for passing that law. That means that in other Districts, kids can work. **

* * *

><p>Coriolanus Snow laughed maniacally in front of the mirror of his new office despite the pain flaring anew in his mouth sores.<p>

He'd done it. He now was the most powerful man in Panem. The most satisfying part was that they _knew_ he'd poisoned the late President, but they would bow before him nonetheless.

The first thing he intended to do was bring some order. District people thought they could loiter, plot and cast stones his peacekeepers, spend their time not _producing_ for the Capitol.

_Honestly, what has his predecessor been thinking?_

It was time to change. He began drafting a new set of rules.

"General?" He called on the buzzcom. "Meet me at eight. I will want new orders transmitted in every barrack of every District. Panem has to realize that I don't tolerate _chaos_."

At the top of his draft, in spiky letters, one could read _'How to keep a population tame.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Rule 1: keep them isolated and eager to please.<strong>

"_Unauthorized gatherings of more than four unrelated people outside school grounds, shops and official buildings are forbidden. First warning is a sixty sesterce fine, second the whip, third avoxing for rebellious intent. "_

It was plastered on every school, every building.

"This is bullshit," Ebony said, gathering her friends close.

"That'll be ten sesterce each, girls."

Ebony's jaw dropped. Worse, she paled, because she realized the peacekeeper could have charged them six times more.

And they said District One was _favored_. They couldn't even talk among themselves.

"But, Sir –"

"I didn't hear that," he cut in sharply. "Don't make me choose between you and your job. You'll lose."

The six thirteen-year-olds looked at each other in a panic.

"We'll be apprenticed by year's end, Sir, are we to never see each other again?" Starla had always been brave, but she could afford to, with her father being so rich. "We're not rebels. We already have so little time to spend together!"

"You want to make it hard on the Capitol to find rebels? Just because you want to giggle with your girlfriends?"

Ebony backed off. You didn't joke with security and loyalty to the Capitol. "No, we can see each other three at a time, Sir. No problem with that, Sir."

The peacekeeper smiled. "Ebony, I can make your meetings _authorized_." _Oh, he could?_ Ebony beamed. "That'd be great, Sir"

"By the way, isn't your brother sick?"

"He's a baby, they always get sick," Ebony muttered, growing more uneasy by the second.

"I have a directive that says we can bump you on the lists to the doctor if you cooperate well. I'm not going to be avoxing," the man said with an eyeroll. "I know rebels here are very few if any. But we need control over who meets and where."

Ebony never quite realized that this was the day she became a collaborator. She just knew her brother was alive and healthy, and that she loved him.

* * *

><p><strong>Rule 2: keep the distractions to a minimum, and the incentives to a maximum.<strong>

"Let's go shopping!" Spark saw formulas in her sleep. She had to clear her head for a few hours or she'd go insane. Just because she lived in District Three not One didn't mean she couldn't care about her appearance.

Her twin brother pushed himself off his chair. "_What_ shopping?"

But Spark dragged him off before Tesla could say a word. Besides, he was tired of studying too.

Spark paused in front of the huge clothes hangar. Quickly assembled, quickly shipped, the clothes came from District Eight in four sizes, and a few more for little kids. Two colors, except for scarves and shoes, those came in twenty and her family's was yellow. It was for the peacekeepers to identify people more easily. You got whipped if you took the wrong color.

"Want anything cut and fixed?"

Spark smiled and shook her head nervously. Weefee was a nice old lady and all that, but she had weird blotches on her skin and they crept Spark out.

Weefee was good at getting clothes your size, or dyeing them if you got lucky enough to get there before the dye hadn't been all sold off. But she didn't do it for free. Nobody did anything for free.

Spark sighed and lingered in front of the Reaping Clothes shop. Those were _pretty _and everybody would get one outfit for almost free. But the shop was shut and would stay shut until a week before Reaping Day. One week from now. The employees had just begun to unpack the first arrivals.

A whistle had her brother grab her arm. "We've got to go."

"Too late," Spark said, her eyes widening at the peacekeepers. "They saw us. We can't run."

She'd run if it had been flappy-ears. Rumors were he was the reason girls had been found dead, clothes torn near the school. But running meant a beating, it wasn't worth it.

"So lads… girl?"

"Girl, Sir," Spark replied. It should've stopped being wounding by the time she turned ten. She didn't even look like a boy. He was just making fun of her hair, but it still stung.

Spark had tried to grow her hair for the longest time, but the shower had clogged for the sixth time because Dad had fixed it himself instead of paying Mrs. S. for it, because Spark was spending so much money on anti-lice shampoo, and just shampoo itself, so Spark had just chopped it off and started washing all over with soap like everybody else.

"Too much free time?"

"We just wanted to get a look at the reaping clothes to get a first pick and look our best for the Capitol, Sir."

"If we see you again, we'll get you to scrub walls."

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," the teenagers said in unison. Missing the 'Sir' could get your parents punched in the teeth for not raising you straight. Dad's teeth mattered more than Spark's pride.

"Shit, shit, shit! Why do I listen to you," Tesla exclaimed.

Spark couldn't meet her twin's gaze. "Because we can't do this. We can't just study and study and never stop!"

"We're going to be forced to get a job if we don't stay in the first quarter. Headaches is better than techies. We'll be so exhausted. And if we become fourths."

"We won't!" The families of kids in the fourth quarter of the class lost healthcare benefits. The kids in the second half of the class had to pay for school lunches. It was all designed to push them so hard all the time, and grow suspicious of each other. Spark made sure to be extra nice to the best-ranked boy of the last quarter, because when he'd get too desperate to care about being caught she didn't want to be the target.

Spark opened the fridge, desperate for a change of subject. "Dad said he was coming late tonight. We should make him something a bit special."

**What I always find odd is how few characters have a job, when story-wise, it's usually a great way to add tension and plot. Child labor was legal in the West for the longest time (and is still tragically an issue in many countries), you can jobs fit for any age if you are ruthless enough.**

* * *

><p><strong>Rule three: keep them scared.<strong>

"Hey you!"

The group of teenagers ran off, hoping the darkness would shield them.

And that was the end of that. Loitering was not a crime in Panem, teenagers could gather and plot all they wanted.

_Ha ha, no. _

The two peacekeepers shared a grim glance and rushed after them.

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum had dreamed of being volunteers to the Hunger Games. They'd hated school and their parents' angry voices, but they'd loved to throw a punch. They'd trained at the Annex since their eighth birthday like every kid worth his meat in District Two. They won their fights and walked off the pain and memorized every damn last Hunger Games for stupid strategy class. They'd come out of the kills tests, snot-nosed and shaking, but figuring it'd be worth it.

Needless to say, compared to those underfed District-Eight whelps, the two men were _much_ faster and much more resistant.

Tweedle-Dee stopped short when he felt something sharp on his neck_. A stone. Now things had gotten serious._ He let the teenagers vanish deeper in the city. He heard them cheer, the bastards.

_He'd get them three times over._

"Who threw a stone?" he bellowed. It was summer, the windows were all open.

_Silence_. District people stuck together, until push came to shove at least.

Tweedle-Dee had got cut from District Two's Annex at fifteen when he broke and Instructor's nose instead of backing off. Tweedle-Dum had got cut at seventeen, when he failed the angle-trials and overheard he would never be interesting enough for the cameras. So Peacekeeper Academy it was. They tried to fix them there, to tell them they couldn't be so violent anymore, because they were soldiers, not _tributes_. Fuck that. And they got assigned to bloody District Eight. _Not enough respect for authority._ _Anger problems_. A fucking mind-doctor's scribbly writing sent them to the shit-hole Districts because they weren't _worthy_ enough to patrol the streets of any District worth anything.

Tweedle Dee's eyes fell on the closest door. He kicked it down and stepped inside.

It was barely cooler than outside, and dark as fuck since that blockhead Lance had thought clever to break the generator to punish the whole street for not respecting him.

He sniffed the air. It smelled clean. It'd better, no one wanted an epidemic, and with the Capitol paying for Eight trash's vaccines and house-cleaning agents, they'd better keep their walls and floors _sparkling_.

"Hello, Grandma," he told the old woman minding two small children. "Saw who threw that stone?"

Sometimes it was pretty young ladies, and he tried to remember which houses, but mostly the oldies minded the kids. If they didn't have kids to mind… well, he would find them a job. Those without kids to mind died quickly, but it was their fault for not breeding or making friends with breeders.

But this one had kids to mind, and the Captain would have his hide if he started bothering the oldies too much. Those kids had to be raised somehow, or the Capitol's quotas would never get met.

"I was cleaning with the little ones, Sir. I saw nothing."

"Of course not," Tweedle-Dum said. "Who has teenagers in the street? I'll look at the tesserae records if you don't say, but I get angry when I feel I wasted my time."

"Number 24," Grandma mumbled.

So to number 24 they went. Something caught their eye out of number 22. That girl was too big to be at home before dinner time. People were needed in the cotton fields, and she looked able.

They slammed down the door of the house and found a fifteen year old painting. She started, gathering her siblings close.

"Dearie, you got enough time for a hobby? The Capitol needs workers."

"We don't have grandparents left to watch him, Sir. Granda passed last month!"

"Then you'll have to see if someone has a spare." Tweedle-Dee said, speaking very slowly. These people weren't too clever. "Or he'll supervise himself."

"He's eight, he can't supervise himself!"

"Then after school, he'll go to the factory make photocopies of patterns or set-up sewing machines, and get supervised by the workers." His crouched next to the kid and his voice turned to a shout. "You want to work? You need to teach me to supervise your siblings? You're a head taller than the stove and your big sister still has to cook dinner? You can't make a bloody sandwich? What are you, retarded?"

The eight year old had tears in his eyes. "No!"

Tweedle-Dee cuffed him so hard he scrambled to his feet. "No?"

"No, Sir!" The boy said his breath hitching. "I'll supervise, Sir!"

"But Dina's big sister doesn't work, Sir," the six year old protested, oblivious to her older sister's panicked look.

_Interesting_. "Oh? And where does she live."

"Sixth street, the house with the yellow triangle."

"Sir," the eight-year-old added quickly for his sister.

Tweedle-Dum shook his head after they'd left, and made the tearful teenager register on the work lists. She'd be doing something useful by the morrow. Every kid and adult with free time was a potential criminal and a security breach.

"What?" Tweedle-Dee asked.

"Sixth street is Sergeant Malachite's part of town. He'd get mad."

"They pay him?" Sixth was a bit less dirt poor than the rest of Eight.

"He's got an agreement with them. Not worth getting the Sergeant mad over some kid. The Captain likes him."

They finally burst into house 24. A young man with a crushed hand was giving a toddler dinner.

"Got your permit to stay home?" Tweedle-Dum barked. He'd checked the man out twice already, but he liked the fear in their eyes. "I want the housing permit too."

There was a teenager on the list alright. Fourteen-years old, the young man's nephew.

"Your nephew, he threw a stone at my neck."

"Sir, he works after school. He can't have been here."

"Then either give me a name, or I'll flay him in public for attacking a peacekeeper. I counted four teenagers and the mysterious stone thrower. So five teenagers are going to get flogged, and I'm not going to bother running after the pieces of shit. If it turns out you gave me an innocent's name, I'll come back and flay your nephew and all the street's kids until I feel better about myself."

Funny, criminals were turned in pretty quickly like that. He remembered the last time he'd gotten a whole class flogged because two little rebels had thought to skip school. Last time he'd seen them, they were being mercilessly bullied.

**You know how many experts say that to eradicate the drug cartel/crime problem, you'd just have to give young people jobs and keep them busy? Well that's the solution, taken to the extreme, with very hostile policemen who answer to nobody but themselves (and might or may not care about district-on-district crime) thrown in the mix. **

**Related to canon: Katniss said that Twelve was a dead-end assignment to peacekeepers who were easily corrupted (until Snow send the new squad with Thread), so don't hesitate to use your imagination to imagine how it could work in other Districts.**

**So… does that mean everything has to be about mean peacekeepers? Of course not. Does that mean it's impossible to rebel? No, but your average fifteen-year-old will find it very difficult and will have bigger concerns than fighting for their freedom.**

**And stop writing district kids who love shopping and doing their nails for Panem's sake!**

* * *

><p><strong>And on that note: three people who failed at beating the system, and two who didn't.<strong>

**1- District Five : the boy who wanted to be a hero**

"I'm going to tell him 'fuck you' next time I see him," Watt promised, punching the air in front of him.

His best friend snorted. "No you won't."

"We've got dye! We can paint insults on Dave's walls. He's with them, he gives them names. It'd be so worth it to see them drag him out."

"Yeah." The boys grinned at each other, loving the rare feeling of power coursing through their veins. "Let's do this."

Getting that snitch beat up and insulting peacekeepers. It was just the best.

They were quick, heads hooded, nobody saw enough to recognize them.

_Fuck the Capitol! _

It was so beautiful, writing big right there in their faces. Watt had never felt so proud.

District Five had to do something. The Capitol had only money and pretty clothes, no dams, no industry. They were nothing. They couldn't be allowed to stay something. Watt would make the new Dark Days happen and he'd be a hero.

His face fell when the peacekeepers lined up not only Dave but his wife and three little children before the house.

He froze in horror when the peacekeeper grabbed the smallest child. He had big green eyes and a spike of hair that didn't sit flat, just like Watt.

"Okay, that's one avox. Someone wanted you screwed over, they succeeded. Now, I'm going to take a random kid every week until a culprit shows up."

Watt threw up in the nearest ditch. _They couldn't that! They hadn't told him that they could do that! _

Two days later, two people were hanging in the square. An old couple. Watt didn't know either of them. That man had died for him. That woman had died for him. Fat tears fell out of his eyes.

"It wasn't them."

Watt jumped when he saw a peacekeeper woman behind him.

"But they wanted to be heroes, so why punish anyone else? I'm not sure what the vandal was hoping to accomplish… You'd think we'd have made enough examples already, but every few months there's a new one. Stupid kids."

Watt's mouth had never been so dry. _Did she know?_ "Yeah, Ma'am, really stupid."

* * *

><p><strong>2- District Eleven: the friends who wanted out<strong>

Clementine snuck out at night, but only when it rained. Peacekeepers couldn't be bothered to patrol when it rained. She sneaked into Pit's house through the broken roof window. Pit's house was such a mess, but who had time and money for getting things fixed?

Unlike the first times, she managed not to land in the basin full of gathering rainwater underneath. Pip high-fived her.

Vine and Sandy were already there, but she and Pip shared the strongest bond. See, they didn't hate their families. They _really_ cared about not getting caught, it wasn't just about themselves.

"Friends, dignity, keeping what you work for," the chanted together. Hearing it, hearing all the good things that life wanted them to give up, was important.

Vine put a handful of grapes on the table, and everyone cheered.

Their work uniforms were too tight to smuggle anything out of the orchards. Sometimes they managed, but it was so hard, and so scary, just a piece of fruit. They had to go back and buy the fruit too bad for the Capitol off the market, and they earned barely enough to.

""They tried to recruit me," Vine whispered. "I have to run."

Clementine shivered. Vine was the biggest of them. He was right age to be made into an overseer.

"If you do, they'll kill your Ma."

"Fuck her. I'm not beating up kids for the rest of my life just so my Ma can have a bit more food on the table."

"What about your brother?"

"What about yours?" Vine shot at Sandy. "He's dead. Beat up by an overseer. I'm not becoming one of them, not for anything."

The peacekeepers left them no good choices, but everyone made the same bad choices. Here, they tried to make the less bad ones.

"I have a plan," Pip said. "I heard something."

Pip was clever. He should've gone to school past twelve, but he'd gotten sick during exam week, so he lost his chance and he'd work in orchards his whole life, like most of everyone.

"I heard they need more people to load the boats." The boats had come when the railways had been damaged, and brought the fruit and vegetables to Four and then to the Capitol. "We hide in, just long enough for them to set sail, and then we jump off, and we go to the wilderness."

"Who can swim?" Clementine protested.

"You won't need to! One of the sailors was complaining that the seas were shallow and that they had to get too close to shore. And at worst, we'll end up in District Four. I hear it's better than here."

Vine nodded. "But what about your families? They're good guys. If you don't turn up for work…"

Pip took a deep breath. "Ma told me to risk it."

Clementine didn't dare hope. "Pip, where do we go live? Peacekeepers keep patrolling the near-wilderness to find people. And I'm too dark to pass for a Four."

"Then help us get in a crate and past the guys," Vine snapped. "Or go back to your life. No one's forcing you."

Clementine took a deep breath. Her Dad had told her to risk it too, if she had a real chance.

She took another deep breath when they told her they'd shot her friends as they'd been trying to get to shore. "We knew they were inside," the peacekeeper said calmly. "We were curious to see how far they'd go, and who would help them along the way."

Her tongue chopped off, Clementine, now avox 712-5, scrubbed the shop and beat the dust out of furs for a famous Capitol brand.

**3- District Ten: the boy who wanted the shouts to stop**

Bronco knew that Dad hated his life. It hurt, because if Bronco had been better, maybe he could've have been enough for Dad. Mom and Dad hated each other too, but there was nowhere else for anyone to go live. So they shouted. And Bronco wished he was a Six instead of a Ten, so that he'd get access to morphling and shut it all out.

He'd made sure to get into the same farm as Jaggary. Best mates were too valuable to lose, and it hard to make friends past school. It had been them against the world since they'd been twelve and they'd never fought.

That's until Bronco heard there was a peacekeeper who got morphling.

"You can't make a deal with peacekeepers!"

"People do it all the time, Jag."

"People in Six are fuckups! You've seen what morphling does! It'll kill you."

"I won't take _that_ much. TV is full of shit. I just _need_ it."

They kept fighting, but Bronco' mind was made. It wasn't easy to get the peacekeeper alone, but Bronco finally did it.

The square man eyed him through narrowed eyes.

"Who did you tell about me?"

"No one, Sir," Bronco said with a shrug.

He realized too late that he'd completely assed his plan.

As he ran in the half-finished arena of the 52nd Games, Bronco was just relieved that he'd not been stupid enough to get Jaggary avoxed too.

He couldn't hear his parents shouting anymore, at least there was that. His muscles screamed as he kept running and cameras swiveled his way. He had no idea what the point was, maybe testing cameras and microphones, but he did know that he didn't want to get chewed on by a mutt.

**4 - District Seven: the teacher who cared.**

"Have you ever talked to a peacekeeper? What did your parents tell you to do when peacekeepers come? Are there ever people at home not of your family?"

Forrest had been teaching for thirty years. He'd passed all the loyalty tests and it was his turn to teach, but also to monitor what parents said in front of their children, and if anything illegal happened in those homes. He had a quota to meet: it would look suspicious if some teachers uncovered many more rebels than others. Forrest had a wife and two sons to protect, but he tried to get kids out of abusive situations instead of getting brothers and grandmas flogged for having said _damn peacekeepers_ one time too many.

In Seven, families who weren't careful could lose everything very quickly.

So when four-year-old Johanna repeated the bad words her brother said about peacekeepers, he knew he had to contact the family before the poor child told the wrong people. He'd taught the brother. He had to be twelve now. It was the age they got cocky.

Unfortunately, he couldn't go straight to the Masons'. It would be suspicious. He couldn't talk to Johanna's aunt, because the school just communicated through written reports. He'd been friends with the peacekeeper reading the reports up to last year, but the new woman was a stranger. Every three years peacekeepers rotated, and Forrest had to start over.

But his son sold ax-sharpeners at the market, and Barke could give messages.

Barke was all too aware that his father helped people, and he was his hero for it. Today Barke had a list of messages to keep straight, he always did. He smiled at everyone, even peacekeepers, because Dad had been dead serious when he'd said being likable was the best way to survive. Barke was scared every day, but this was too important. He had to be brave.

He was good with faces. He made a point to often visit Dad's class and he recognized little Johanna immediately. The woman with her had to be her aunt.

"We need one of those." It was almost a question.

"Jo's brother has been teaching her bad words on peacekeepers," Barke whispered as he leaned forward to show her one of the sharpeners. "Dad wanted you to know. You got to keep her from repeating and get him to shut up."

The woman blanched, her fingers trembling as she paid for the cheapest stone. "I sure will," she said hoarsely.

And she did, because nobody in the Mason family died because of the Capitol, not for a very long time. Ironically, it happened because of another Johanna, but that's a whole other story.

**5 - District Six: the girl who went to the Capitol **

Mom had sold morphling to peacekeepers for as long as Kiva remembered. Kiva was pretty sure her father was a peacekeeper for that matter, but who she'd never know. It was just her and Mom, and life was hard but Mom seemed content even those times she wasn't hooked on morphling, and Kiva hadn't ever had to do anything she really didn't want to do.

Kiva's throat constricted as she hurried to the barracks. Mom was ill, so she had to replace her, and a little voice in her mind wondered what was stopping the peacekeepers from stealing all her morphling and leaving her with nothing.

But they didn't, and they bought as usual, and one woman even winked at her and motioned her forward.

Kiva hurried. "Yes, Ma'am?" That peacekeeper was Katana, she was friendly with Mom, as much as peacekeepers got.

"Want to see a very handsome lad? He told us his calling was to save innocent ladies."

Kiva frowned, she did not like surprises. "I'm a bit shy. I don't want to get too close."

"Don't worry," Katana laughed, rolling the morphling in a ball. "It's the new escort. Let me clean you up a touch."

Kiva was sixteen, and fear of pregnancy had keep boys firmly in her dreams. Unrequited crushes made that easy. But she did have a few stolen kisses, and a bit more than kisses, she was very proud of.

But when she saw the Capitol man, she _gaped_.

He was _beautiful_. He was so… healthy, and smiling and tall. She'd never seen someone like him, not up close. She smiled helplessly at him and he smiled back, looking surprised to see her in the barracks. So she offered him morphling, and he stared at her like she was insane. He took a pinch, and then looked oddly sad.

Mom told her she was crazy for mooning over a man like that. She reminded Kiva that he led the reaped kids to their deaths, but Mom was friendly with peacekeepers who'd hurt many more than that. And Mom was dying. She'd not managed to stay off the morphling all these years, and her body could not fight anymore.

Less than a year later, Mom was dead.

Katana helped Kiva go on. The peacekeeper was a weird kind of aunt, but she and Halbert took care of her. People found out, they always did, and brick by brick an invisible wall built itself between her and her acquaintances. She was the peacekeeper's girl. She wasn't one of _theirs_ anymore. Every week, her contacts raised their prices, and she knew she'd get out of business soon. She'd only ever known the morphling trade and had failed school. Her prospects were very bleak.

The Capitol escort came back the year before, and Kiva begged Katana to leave her a minute with him. Somehow, she managed it.

"I must come with you to the Capitol," Kiva said. He was still as beautiful, but there was something more detached, less curious in his eyes. Just _one_ Hunger Games had done that to him? If so, this was her last chance.

"Only avoxes come," he said, his voice odd and full of songs. "I know you. The morphling dealer."

"You said you wanted to save innocent ladies. You are powerful enough to have a personal avox."

His lips curled in disbelief. "They'd say you were my whore. It's no life."

"You should hear what they say here." She smiled. Her teeth were all straight and white now that Katana had taken her to the doctor, and her hair had never been so shiny. "I don't mind. You said you wanted to save innocent ladies."

Finding a decent husband to have a family with, with the little she had to offer and her status as pariah, was a stupid dream. Katana and Halbert would rotate in a year, and she'd be left with nobody and nothing.

She'd rather live silent in luxury.

He flinched as she reminded him his naive dreams, but a new brightness lit his blue eyes. "You'd need to commit a crime."

Kiva smiled. "That's not too hard to do. Would you save me and take me with you?"

She sensed victory when he looked outraged. "I must, or you'll throw yourself at the first asshole who'd take advantage."

Kiva pressed a kiss to his cheek. She might not get love, but she knew she had found someone who could manage respect. She didn't need more.

Now, the crime. Mom had taught Kiva to defend herself. There was too much morphling at home to not take precautions.

Aston was too old to fix railways but young enough to rule over half the city's morphling traffic, and when the adults he hired left orphans behind, he hooked them on morphling too, and made sure they had no options but work slavishly for him.

He had a grandson at the reaping and so he was there too, in the back with the adults. Katana didn't check her for weapons and let her go with the adults instead of the seventeens. Kiva had her knife in Aston's gut before he realized she was a threat. He'd be dead before they got him to the hospital. _If_ they even bothered.

The escort, Lucius, demanded she be avoxed and vowed he'd personally make sure. Kiva was in love.

Halbert roughly dragged her onstage. She didn't fake the pain at the strength of his grip.

"Aston's workers?" she muttered. "They're just kids."

Halbert looked grave. "We'll try."

Thirty years later, she watched Lucius' children grow from the sidelines and played with the house pets when she'd finished the cleaning and everyone was gone, and she did not regret her choice.

* * *

><p><strong>Final Author's Note: the Hunger Games trilogy is the story of the rebellion because the story of a powerless population oppressed by a ruthless system is gloomy at best. I understand completely the writers who want it all to be a bit more light-hearted, but don't have your 'rebel' thirteen-year-old sass off to a peacekeeper with no consequences and call it a dystopia. <strong>

**I hope I didn't all bore you to death. I'd be happy to hear your thoughts^^.**


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